


The Stag Do -or- Molly's Sex Holiday in Paris

by geekmama



Series: Honorable Intentions [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Smut, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mycroft may have planned the day and evening, but Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper definitely save the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stag Do -or- Molly's Sex Holiday in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Purple" prompt.
> 
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Molly hadn’t minded taking an extra shift at Bart’s so that Mike Stamford could attend Sherlock’s Stag Do. She felt she needed the distraction. Sherlock had for days veered from childish whinging to snappish ill-temper and back again in his dread of the event, which, he had discovered, had been planned jointly and with the utmost secrecy by John _and_ Mycroft and was scheduled to last some fifteen hours, give or take. His dismay had been expressed almost solely to Molly, however, and it was with a fairly good grace that Sherlock had at last climbed into the big Land Rover that had pulled up in front of Molly’s building at nine a.m. sharp to whisk him away .

“Don’t wait up for us, Molls!” John had called to her, grinning giddily and waving as they’d driven off.

She’d waved back from the curb, silently thankful that she wouldn’t _have_ to wait up: Sherlock had told her he’d stay in Baker Street that night, in consideration of possible after effects, and would meet her for lunch the next day to tell her all about it, hopefully fully recovered by that time.

“Poor darling,” she murmured to herself, not quite suppressing the urge to giggle, and took herself off to work.

She did not hear from him all that day, neither text nor call, and hoped that this meant that all was well, that he was having a much better time than anticipated. This hope sustained her throughout her double shift, and was only shattered when she’d at last reached home, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the couch, around midnight. She was contentedly scritching Toby behind the ears when her mobile rang.

It was Mrs. Hudson.

“Molly, dear, I hate to disturb you, but it’s Sherlock. I think he may need some help, but he just tells me to go away, that he doesn’t need me.”

“Is he more than just tipsy?” Molly asked and frowned. “John should have seen to him!”

“He would have, I think, only Sherlock waved him off, too, him _and_ Lestrade. The rumpus they made, bringing him in! But he seemed alright until they left. I’m afraid he was just putting a good face on things for them. He could barely get up the stairs, and it wasn’t just the drink. I think he’s injured himself somehow!”

“Injured! In what way? And how could John not notice?”

“Well, you know how Sherlock is, most of the time. He told _me_ it was nothing, too. But he was limping quite badly, and he looks very flushed -- I think he may have a fever!”

 _Good God!_ “OK. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll keep an eye on him until you arrive.”

 

*

 

Mrs. Hudson, wearing her dressing gown and slippers, her hair still mussed, was hovering on the landing by  Sherlock’s open door, wringing her hands. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she exclaimed as Molly ran up the stairs to her. “Only I’m afraid he’s been sick. He’s been in the loo these twenty minutes.”

She and Molly both entered the flat, Mrs. Hudson hanging back, while Molly strode toward the closed door down the hall. When she was almost there a loud thump was heard from inside the loo, and she and Mrs. Hudson exchanged startled glances before she turned back to the door. “ _Sherlock!_ _Are you alright?_ ”

There was rather a long pause, and then one word. “Ow.”

Molly jiggled the door handle. Locked. “Sherlock, let me in,” Molly called to him firmly. “Can you unlock the door?”

There were some shuffling sounds, and at length a click sounded as the lock gave way. Molly tried to open the door, but met resistance.

“Justa sec,” came Sherlock’s slurred tones. There was more shuffling, and finally a groan. “Right,” he said, sounding defeated.

Molly opened the door and gaped at him, while Mrs. Hudson cooed in sympathy, looking over her shoulder. Their beloved, beautiful Sherlock, the great Consulting Detective, was sitting on the tile floor with his legs stretched out as much as possible, leaning back against the vanity unit that housed the sink, next to the open toilet. His fine dress shirt was unbuttoned and a little stained and his trousers were gathered around his ankles -- it looked like he’d been trying to get them off but had forgotten about his shoes. His modesty was more or less preserved by briefs in an attractive plaid cotton fabric, but his semi-trouserless state also revealed a livid purple bruise on the side of his left leg, covering an area from just above his knee almost to the middle of his calf, and the width of Molly’s hand. He was indeed injured, and flushed, too, as Mrs. Hudson had said, but now, crouching quickly next to him and peering at him closely, Molly could see that it was no fever -- or no real illness, at least.

“You’re sunburnt!” she said. “And your leg! Sherlock, what happened? Why didn’t you tell John you were hurt?”

“Paintball happened,” he said, sadly. “And it’s not that bad, didn’t bother me much before. I didn’t know how bad it looked ‘til I tried to get undressed just now.”

“Paintball!” Molly exclaimed, half laughing.

Sherlock laughed too, but rather mirthlessly. “Yes. Stupid. John wanted to do it. Thought it’d be _fun_.”

Martha Hudson broke in, saying to Molly, “It looks like he’ll live, but call me if you need anything, dear.”

Molly smiled at her. “Thank you, I will,” and Sherlock blew his landlady an extravagant and rather clumsy kiss, cracking a crooked grin.

When Mrs. Hudson had gone, however, Sherlock’s grin faded to a grimace.

“Let’s get some of these clothes off, shall we?” said Molly briskly, and set about removing his shoes, socks, and then the trousers. “So paintball? Who participated? John, of course...”

“Six of us, John and Anderson were on my team, and Mycroft, Lestrade, and Stamford formed the other. It _was_ good fun, at first. But then I fell and bashed my leg. And the sun was so bloody hot!”

“It does get that way in the summer. Were the others burned as well?”

“No. Mycroft’d put on sunscreen, and they all had hats, all but me. Bloody Mycroft. And he fucking _cheated!_ ”

“Cheated? In what way?”

Sherlock ignored this to continue the brotherly abuse. “ _Bastard_. Well, not bastard, really _\--_ pretty sure Mummy wouldn’t’ve played m’father false. But he’s a fucking cheat, just the same. Should’ve taken him out --  I could do it, too, you know. He may be smarter, but he’s rubbish at fighting.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No,” he said, morosely. “Just carried on. John and I did our best, but  Anderson was fucking _useless!_ As tits on a bull.” This last enunciated with great and lilting precision. He gave Molly a coy look, adding, “As the saying goes.”

She gave a little snort of laughter. “Oh, too bad. But he _is_ only a forensics specialist. I must say, I can’t really imagine Mycroft playing paintball. The mind boggles.”

“Mmmm. He does surprise one at times. _And_ he cheats. But he made it up to me later.”

“That’s good. How so?”

“He had rooms reserved for us at the Connaught, and a private banquet room, too, paid for the whole thing. We all got cleaned up and went for drinks downstairs -- they’ve a couple of good bars. And then we repaired to the banquet room for dinner and champagne. The food was quite tolerable.”

“I expect so! It _is_ a five star hotel.” Molly, had by this time set his shoes and socks aside, removed his wadded trousers and now stood up to fold them.

Sherlock went on. “The conversation left something to be desired. They each had half a dozen horrible stories about me, with Mycroft leading the pack, of course. He’s a bloody rubbish big brother.”

Molly chuckled. “He’s a generous one, though.”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, scowling. But then he brightened. “But I didn’t tell you the best part. He got dancers! Girls direct from Paris -- _Folies Bergère!_ ”

“Really?”

Sherlock nodded, smiling dreamily. “A half dozen of ‘em, one for each of us, and the prettiest things you ever saw. And lively! God, they were all over the place, high kicks and cartwheels, and those ruffled skirts! The energy of ‘em was fantastic! Your bloody BoyToys policeman and his sequinned G-string had _nothing_ on them!”

And the smile was wiped from Molly’s face. _“_ My _… Sherlock!”_

Her reaction was not lost on him, even though he was considerably more than half-cut. He frowned. “What?” But then a startled expression dawned. “Oh! Never mind. Shouldn’t have said that last bit.” He put his long index finger against his lips -- “ _Shhhhh!_ ” -- then pointed the finger at her: “Delete delete delete!”

“I will _not_ delete!” she said, indignantly. “Sherlock Holmes, you spied on me, didn’t you? On _all_ of us!”

“Noooo--”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t fib!”

He looked up at her sadly. “All right. But it was ten minutes. I swear.”

“How did you even get in?” she demanded.

“I know Pratt. The manager.”

“Jimmy Swank?”

Sherlock nodded. “Went to uni with him. Well, ‘til he got sent down that last time.”

Molly pursed her lips and glared at him. “We will discuss this further when you’ve had some sleep--”

“ _Noooo!_ ” he now moaned, and slumped to the side, leaning disconsolately against the toilet.

“--but right now I’ll go make up an ice pack for your leg. Do you want to try moving to the bed?”

He gave a great sigh and began the strenuous task of getting up off the floor. She helped him as much as she could, and presently he was on his feet, swaying a bit.

And turning an interesting shade of green. “Bad idea,” he said in a strangled voice, and quickly knelt before the porcelain god once more.

Molly shook her head and went to the kitchen, ignoring the pitiful retching sounds coming from the loo as best she could.

A few minutes later, when she returned with the ice pack, she found him lying on the floor, the toilet within easy reach, resting his cheek against the cool tile. “I’ll just stay here for a bit,” he muttered.

She went to his bedroom. fetched a blanket, then came back and arranged the ice pack against that dreadful bruise, and covered him.

“Thank you,” he said, sleepily.

“You’re welcome.”

“Just one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Can you make the room stop spinning?”

 

*

 

She slept in his bed, and at five in the morning woke very briefly to the sound of the shower running. Dozing while he finished, she was presently roused once more as he climbed in with her. She drew him close. He was still slightly damp around the edges, and smelled appreciably fresher than he had a few hours ago.

“Much better,” she murmured, and kissed his forehead.

He only sighed, and curled closer, and fell asleep.

 

*

 

The sun was bright through the slit in the curtains when they woke at mid morning. They lay still, listening  to the quiet sounds of Mrs. Hudson coming in to set a tray of tea and fresh baked scones on the kitchen table and then taking her leave.  When the door had closed, they both relaxed, and Sherlock kissed her, tentatively at first, and then with slowly mounting passion.

He was gently sucking on her neck when she whispered in his ear, “I’ve decided to forgive you for spying on us at BoyToys.”

He stiffened suddenly, and not in the good way. She fought against a smile as he pulled back to look at her. “I… said something about that, did I?”

“You did. Confession is, of course, good for the soul.”

He winced. “I’ve always found it extremely inconvenient. Sometimes painfully so.”

She chuckled.

His hands began to move over her, deliciously. “But…  you forgive me?”

She kissed him. “I do, And further, I will promise not to tell Mary or your Mother--on one condition.”

He stilled again, and eyed her warily. “And what might that be?”

“That you take me to Paris as soon as possible to see the _Folies Bergère.”_

He gave a crooked smile, relieved, but said, “But we’re going to Italy. The reservations are all made.”

“We can go on a second honeymoon. In the spring.”

He made a show of pondering this, saying slowly, “Hmmm. A spring sex holiday in Paris with my favorite pathologist. With punishment of that severity I believe I should consider misbehaving more often.” He assumed a comically pleading look and whined, “ _Please ma’am, may I have another?_ ”

She burst out  laughing, and as he nuzzled her she hugged him with one arm and slid her other down, her hand slipping under the elastic edge of the plaid briefs to suggestively caress his truly excellent arse.

“Vixen,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” she returned, “you are ready to admit that confession _is_ good for the soul?”

“Oh, yes. Anything you like, Miss Hooper,” he said. “ _Anything._ ”  


~.~  


End file.
